The Silent Wood Poem by Diana Rosser

The nightingale does not sing in my wood,
nor does the robin or the black bird sing.
On every branch on every tree, nothing;
for there is nothing here of any good.
I will scream at you with my broken heart,
The nightingale does not sing in my wood,
that lost of hope there is nothing of good,
and in that nothing there is time to part.
Then you will yell that it was I who seized
All the songs from out the bare leafed trees
I’ll turn to remonstrate, but this time cease
Enough you’ve never heard a single plea
Nightingales sing in the summer wood
Not here in this winter of nothing good.